


Two Oceans In Between Us (And I Wait For Shore)

by aeveee



Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-04
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2019-03-27 00:46:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13869501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeveee/pseuds/aeveee
Summary: Michael pauses, breathes, and as always, thinks of Philippa.“Hope, Saru,” she says, finally. Saru blinks, and Michael smiles. “Hope.”





	Two Oceans In Between Us (And I Wait For Shore)

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from ‘Ava’ by Famy.
> 
> Unbeta'ed. Any mistakes herein are mine.

She knows, in those first two breaths. Michael watches Philippa’s face, fine lines she’s traced in the privacy of twilight contorted into an approximation of bewilderment. Her captain had often looked at her like this when she’d said something soft, something human. Faced with a twisted shadow, Michael misses Philippa terribly.

(Loves her, just as terribly.)

The moment dissolves when Philippa’s eyes narrow, gaze sharp as the knife at Michael’s throat. Michael swallows, feels the metal shift with it.

“Where are you, Michael?” this Philippa asks. Michael fights the clench of her chest, the words _she’s gone just like the you that was mine_ bubbling behind her teeth. This Philippa watches her closely and the grey flint of her eyes is chillingly unfamiliar.

“I’m right here,” Michael says.

Philippa hums. The knife slides slow, a slick feeling along prickling skin. It comes to a rest in the dip between Michael’s collarbones, and Philippa smiles.

“So you are.”

This Philippa could kiss her, then. She doesn’t, and the word _daughter_ rings in Michael’s head, heavy and weighted and wrong.

\--

The first time, Michael barely remembers - her nerves leave an uncharacteristic lapse in memory. It’s Philippa who fills in the gaps, waxes poetic about the sun in Michael’s eyes, the deep brown of her skin in the morning light. Philippa tells her of the little hitch in breath Michael had unknowingly let out, the hesitation in Michael’s fingertips as she’d reached.

“You were so different then, like a woman I had never met.”

“And that’s a good thing?” Michael asks. She feels more than hears Philippa's laughter, the soft huff of her breath morphing into a kiss on the crown of her head. Their limbs are intertwined beneath Philippa’s indulgent sheets and Michael tilts her head up to catch Philippa’s lips with her own.

Later, Philippa says, “I love discovery, Michael. The call of the unknown, the rush of diving in. I thought I had known you, through and through. Then you showed me there was more to learn, to love. Who was I to deny myself that?”

“A responsible Starfleet officer and captain,” Michael teases, but she pulls Philippa closer, revels in the warmth of her heart and arms. “So you chose to take a chance on a stranger?”

“No,” Philippa smiles, “I was faced with a woman who had finally bared herself fully to me after years, and in love of all things. The chance I took was on myself, on whether I would be good enough. She’s the one I’ve always trusted.”

It hurts, then, in the way that emotions often do when they overwhelm. Michael breathes and breathes, follows the feeling of Philippa’s fingers slowly tracing along the curve of her back up into her shoulder blades, guides her breath in the same path. Her thoughts sort with each exhale until all but one falls away. Michael turns it in her mind, dances it along her tongue.

“I love you,” she says, finally. The words feel right, like the beat of Philippa’s heart against her own, like the soft press of her lips to Michael’s.

“You said that to me for the first time that morning. And I will say what I didn’t have the courage to at the time,” Philippa says. Michael blinks as Philippa dips her head until their foreheads touch. “I love you, Michael Burnham. In this universe, and any we have yet to unearth.”

When their lips meet, Michael thinks Philippa must taste the overflowing happiness and devotion that pools on her tongue, spools from her bones.

\--

The worst part of the light in this universe is its perpetual state of gold. It reminds Michael of sunrises, of quiet hours in the captain’s quarters and Philippa still asleep beside her. She wakes each morning to a liminal space and an empty bed, a constant reminder that Philippa is gone.

This Philippa eats with the same delicacy, lips on the very tip of the spoon, teeth never touching the metal. Breakfast is a silent affair with Michael sitting just to Philippa’s left, always. She wonders about the significance of this arrangement.

“Have you grown to love wastefulness or have the Imperial chefs displeased you again?”

Michael looks up from picking at her bubur ayam, spoon catching on something she thinks may not be chicken. “Neither, Philippa,” Michael breathes, waiting for the nausea to pass, “Just a morning ennui of sorts.”

Philippa is careful in her next words. Her gaze drags along Michael’s skin, slow and heavy. “I would have thought Terran nostalgia would overcome that. This has been your favourite since you were little.”

Except, it’s not. It’s Philippa’s. Michael remembers the first time Philippa had brought her a bowl, painstakingly prepared and slightly burnt when a shipwide hail had pulled her attention for a breath too long. _That's what makes it taste of home,_ Philippa had laughed. Michael had lingered on the first spoonful, trying to parse out the flavours, the memories.

“Perhaps I have been away too long,” Michael says now, echoing the words Philippa had murmured then. This Philippa watches her and Michael tightens her fingers around her spoon, wills them not to shake as she raises it to her lips.

(“It’s usually eaten for breakfast, and often when one is sick,” Philippa says as she enters Michael’s quarters. Michael blinks. Her eyelids are slow to cooperate, limbs endlessly heavy. Her throat feels raw from acquiescing to Philippa’s request to enter, and it makes it hard to ask about the steaming bowl in Philippa’s hands that Michael doesn’t recognize.

“What is?” Michael eventually croaks. Philippa comes to a stop at her bedside.

“Bubur ayam,” Philippa says. The words roll off her tongue with the ease of a first language, the elegance of a lifetime with the syllables. “It’s a porridge that’s usually made with chicken from where I’m from.” Philippa smiles then, sets the bowl at Michael’s bedside. “May I sit?”

“Please,” Michael whispers.

Philippa settles herself on the narrow edge of Michael’s bed. Michael watches as her captain takes catalogue of her, gaze sweeping across the sweat beading on Michael’s forehead, the gentle flush of a fever across her cheeks. For a moment, Michael is certain Philippa will touch her. Instead, Philippa folds her fingers in her lap and heaves a small sigh.

“How are you feeling, Number One?”

“Foolish,” Michael says after a moment. Then, when Philippa finally smiles: “Vindicated.”

“You had nothing to prove,” Philippa admonishes with a shake of her head. Michael raises a brow in response but not much else, the ache in her muscles making it difficult to move. The pain feels almost in her bones, and a curious part of Michael takes a moment to ponder the similarities of the universe’s influenza strains. The rest of her focuses on the way Philippa is looking at her, equal parts exasperation and fondness.

“I’m sure Januzzi would say otherwise,” Michael says when it becomes clear Philippa isn’t going to speak. She swallows thickly, parched throat protesting the extended use. Michael ignores it in favour of asking, deadpan, “Does he get the honour of... be- bubur ayam in bed, too?”

“Only the best for my best,” Philippa says, a smile dancing at the corners of her lips. And then, softly, “Your pronunciation is improving, Michael.”

“Not much time before shore leave,” Michael whispers. Philippa watches her with an expression Michael can’t decipher despite its familiarity. “It would be remiss of me to enter your home without at least a rudimentary grasp of the language.”

Philippa doesn’t say anything after that, reaching for the bowl she’d brought and holding it out to Michael. Michael breathes in, feels the steam curl through her nose, her throat. It soothes some of the ache in her and she uses the momentary relief to prop herself up in bed, wrapping her fingers around the warm metal spoon. She raises the spoon to her mouth with shaky, fever-weakened fingers and takes a gentle first taste, a small sip of the piece of home Philippa has chosen to share with her.)

“Perhaps it was naive of me to assume your hunt to the edges of the universe did not leave its marks on you,” this Philippa drawls. Michael looks up, thrown from her thoughts and expression struggling to remain neutral despite the heaving in her gut. This Philippa sits far more rigidly at the table, posture immaculate beneath her armour. Michael misses the curl of Philippa’s spine and the feel of it pressed into her palm as they lay in bed.

“I am fine, Mother.”

Philippa’s eyes sharpen. “So you say.”

Servants enter then, summoned by an absent gesture from their Emperor. Michael watches as they swarm the table, quiet and unobtrusive. She recognizes Saru in his formless robe and the rush of helplessness she feels as she takes in his unnaturally pale skin takes her by surprise.

“Come,” Philippa says, rising. Servants part before her, eager to create distance under the pretense of worship. Michael waits until Saru looks up as she stands and she breathes and breathes, looks away.

“Yes, Mother.”

She falls in line behind Philippa and for one sickening moment, she sees curls.

\--

Michael loses herself in the aftermath of the hearing. There is only darkness and quiet, and the vast expanse of her mind in disarray. She spends her days walking through its roiling corners, submerging herself in the memories, the tears and regrets.

She remembers the feeling of Philippa’s neck, slender and smooth beneath her fingertips. She remembers tracing the pads of her thumbs along Philippa’s collarbones, brushing her long fingers up until they had tangled in Philippa’s hair. She loves the cascade of Philippa’s ponytail coming undone after their last shift, the sight of it spread against her standard issue pillow.

In these moments she doesn’t think of Philippa in the softness of night. Instead, she remembers the crinkle of Philippa’s uniform as she had gripped. There had been a tightness there, unanticipated. She attributes that to her miscalculation in force.

(Not the beat of Philippa's heart through her pulse, not the softness of her gaze.)

Michael sits with the tears and Philippa’s wide eyes as she’d crumpled and makes herself feel every moment, bruising and relentless and inescapable in her cell. She sorts through them, experiences them, breathes, and one by one she lets them go:

Philippa, with her crooked smile and the words _first contact then - you can see my analogy, more or less_ . Philippa, with a hand on her telescope and the question, _what do you see, Number One?_ Philippa, with only starlight to light her and a quiet, _I could always use a companion when I visit home_.

By the time the transport shuttle comes, Michael is ready. Her mind is quiet, her chest still. The feeling of Philippa’s neck remains beneath her fingertips but it’s in remembrance now, the one thing she’s chosen to keep. A reminder of a mistake and the swiftness with which it had dealt its consequences. Michael sits with her back straight, fingers folded in her lap, and accepts.

But then, there is Gabriel Lorca and _context is for kings_  and Michael wavers, then. She sleeps, and in her dreams Philippa whispers to her, presses kisses to her hair, her cheeks, her lips. She sleeps, and all of her work is undone. She wakes out of her prisoner’s uniform and wonders if this is a second chance or just another consequence waiting to be dealt.

\--

“I knew, in those first two seconds.”

Michael breathes heavily, chest heaving beneath her armour. This Philippa stands impossibly straight and the blood that trickles down her chest plate looks almost alluring, almost artistic. Michael fights the urge to run a thumb over Philippa’s cheek to wipe away a smear of blood there. The smallest of finger twitches gives her away.

“You are not my Michael.”

The golden light of this universe washes over them in this momentary break from battle and Michael catalogues the way it touches Philippa, highlights the sharpness of her cheekbones and the silvery glint of her eyes. Her gaze is held steady with intent, not patience, and the press of it pushes Michael’s shoulder blades back, lifts her chin.

“No, I am not. I never was your daughter. How did you know?”

There is blood in Philippa’s smile - she must have taken a hit to her teeth, a butt of a phaser, maybe the hilt of a sword - and it makes her look predatory. Michael watches the way she flips a pistol with ease, tucks it into her holster and hoists a sword. “You underestimate me. You look at me with such reverence, such worship. It is sickening - a weakness.”

“You mean to say your daughter did not love you?” Michael asks. Her fingers hold her own phaser loosely. She’s finding it hard to keep her grip tight in the wake of muscle exhaustion and the creep of hopelessness. She prays her crew is on its way, that she can finish what she had promised, but the seconds tick by and all she can focus on are the bodies all around her and the way Philippa doesn’t take care to step over them.

“Love is not the same for you as it is for I. We do not exist for the same reasons. You and your Federation hold equality and respect dear. If my daughter loved me, it would be with a steady blade.” Philippa hums, then smiles wryly. “I suppose she did in the end, even if it was under some vile man’s whim.”

“Don’t say that,” Michael says. Philippa tests the weight of her sword, tosses it easily between her hands with an eyebrow raised. “Don’t demean her actions. If my counterpart and I were anything alike, her love is not something to be questioned.”

“No,” Philippa draws out, “I suppose not. But then, your Philippa was never your mother, was she?”

Michael colours hotly. “No, she wasn’t.”

“The universes truly hold such surprises,” Philippa smirks. She looks down when her boot slips and her lips curl with disdain. “It took months for the gold to be inlaid on this floor. Blood so does disagree with the finer things in life, doesn't it, Michael?”

Michael never gets the chance to answer. She flinches when phaser fire narrowly misses her shoulder and clips Philippa instead. Philippa hisses, draws her own weapon and fires two shots before pulling Michael close to her.

“It was a mistake to think the quiet would last for long. I do like you, Michael Burnham of the Federation. Live, and try not to let your weakness kill you. The shield is taken care of. There is no more need for you here.”

And then Michael is flung away, staggering into the relative safety of a corner as Philippa opens fire, takes down one, then two men as they try to enter the room. Michael’s palms are hot, her chest thundering as Philippa bares her teeth, snarls as a phaser burst slices her leg and brings her to a knee.

“What are you waiting for?” Philippa calls as she scoops up a phaser rifle and starts to fire with both hands. Her knee sits in a pool of another body’s blood, her eyes wild with glee. Michael thinks of her Philippa and the slow crinkle of her smile, the gentle weight of her hand in Michael’s. The decision is made for her.

“Burnham to Discovery.”

Her tricorder barely registers in her hand. Already her fingers are tingling as the energy transfer begins, and she remembers this distinct moment, this one infinite breath as she had launched herself forward the first time and never quite reached.

This time, Philippa’s back is hard against her front as she crashes into her, feet slipping slightly in blood before they lose purchase completely, more energy than matter. Philippa’s breath rushes out in a surprised sound and the phaser fire seems so loud, so close, but Michael doesn’t feel any of it. For one breath, she allows herself the elation of this moment, and then they are aboard the Discovery.

Philippa turns, slow. She is still kneeling, boots and pants dark with blood. Her eyes are wide.

“What have you done?”

Michael stands still, lets her arms fall to her sides. Her friends are beginning to trickle into the transporter room and Saru comes to an abrupt stop, pale as his threat ganglia unfurl to full display. Philippa snarls and Michael pulls her attention towards her, hands warm and firm on the phasers still in Philippa's.

“I made a decision. I chose my consequence. I chose you.”

“You have damned me,” Philippa spits, but there is a twisted wonder there, as though in this one moment Philippa sees her daughter and not Michael. It hurts because this Philippa is sharp in a way Michael’s Philippa never was, in ways she would never dream to be. The edges of this woman and the curves of the woman that haunts her heart are so hard to reconcile.

“Burnham. Do you care to explain what I am seeing here?” Saru says.

Michael pauses, breathes, and as always, thinks of Philippa.

“Hope, Saru,” she says, finally. Saru blinks, and Michael smiles. “Hope.”


End file.
